


Spring Cleaning

by zabjade



Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-20
Updated: 2018-12-20
Packaged: 2019-09-23 18:21:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,502
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17085359
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zabjade/pseuds/zabjade
Summary: A bored Spike decides he might as well do a spot of cleaning.This story is in answer to a request for theHidden Gems Holiday Event“Spike in a French maid outfit.”Rated:Light pineappleCucumberA bit of mangoHints of apple





	Spring Cleaning

Spike prowled about the house, poking at various knickknacks and flipping lights on and off. He’d slept away as many of the daylight hours as he’d been able, then spent a bit prepping and drinking his first mug of blood. Normally, he’d watch a spot of telly or curl up with a book. Maybe even play some of those video games he’d got into while recovering from his hands being chopped off. Today, though, he was just too bloody restless.

The house was entirely too quiet with only him in it. He stomped up the stairs, making at least as much noise as a whole herd of elephants. Or Dawn all by her lonesome. She normally would have been there, but she was off at some event with Clem for the weekend. One of those where everyone faffed about in period costumes, pretending to be English. Spike snorted at the thought. At least Dawn had the accent down, these days. Mostly.

He wandered into the bedroom he shared with Buffy, throwing himself down on their bed with a sigh. She wasn’t there, either, but rather than being at some campsite, she was hunting a demon that liked to wander about eating people during the day. Inconsiderate wanker. The eating people bit was obviously the worst aspect, but doing it during the day? Left him out of the hunt. Also, went against the natural order of things, it did. No doubt the demon would turn out to be wearing glasses with thick black frames and a fedora. And spouting off about things being “ironic,” as if it had any notion what the word actually meant.

Spike sat up and glanced around the bedroom. It was starting to get a bit shabby. Clothes were strewn about all willy-nilly and spiders were taking over the ceiling corners. Cobwebs were great for a crypt — added atmosphere and whatall — but not so much for a rental house in the suburbs of L.A. Just made things look all unkempt. Be a nice surprise for Buffy if he got things more presentable. Especially if….

He grinned and headed for the closet that held his things along with some overflow from Buffy’s. He’d got the outfit back in October, when Dawn had been nagging at him to dress up for Halloween. She’d turned beet red at the sight and had actually paid him twenty bucks to _not_ wear it. He’d selected good quality things for the outfit, though, since it was only partly to twit the Niblet. He’d always meant to bring it out for some fun with Buffy, but just hadn’t got around to it.

 _No time like the present,_ he thought, starting to take off his clothes.

...

 _Ugh,_ Buffy thought in worn out disgust as she opened the door, _demons should_ not _be allowed to run around during the day._ Though this one had at least had a nifty hat. She shut the door behind her, then just leaned against it, eyes closed. It only took a moment for her to realize what she wasn’t hearing.

She opened her eyes to an empty living room. Huh. She’d expected Spike to be parked on the sofa, watching stupid daytime television while chowing down on popcorn coated with blood and an entire stick of butter. Okay, so he didn’t _always_ watch TV. He liked to read and play games, too, but she knew the TV tended to be a comfort for him when no one else was home. The chatter made him feel less alone.

“Honey, I’m home!” she called out as she pushed away from the door.

“Up here, love!”

She headed up the stairs, wondering what he was doing up there. The fact that he’d answered at all, especially so quickly, meant that he hadn’t been taking a nap or anything. The man was seriously _not_ a light sleeper. There’d been an earthquake intense enough to shake the entire house a couple months back, and his only reaction had been to grunt, scratch his butt, and then steal the covers. All without waking up at all.

“Hey Spike,” she said, starting to open the door. “What are you… up…t…?”

She stared, not quite able to process what she was seeing. She was vaguely aware the room was a lot tidier than it had been, but most of her focus was on Spike. Little white half-apron with lace. Ruffled headpiece. Fishnet stockings. Black dress with white trim and a skirt that barely reached down to mid-thigh. High heels. A feather duster.

Spike was dressed up in a skimpy French maid outfit. Why was Spike dressed up in a skimpy French maid outfit? _Why do you even care about why?_ her hormones demanded. _Yum._

Buffy decided to agree with her hormones. It was best not to question these things, anyway. Just go with the flow. The very sexy flow.

“See something you like, then, pet?” he asked, one brow raised as he gestured vaguely with the feather duster.

She let herself just stare for a moment longer, then glanced around the room. She could just go ahead and jump him, or….

“No, I don’t,” she said, scowling and pointing to a cobweb still at one corner of the ceiling. “You missed a spot. You know what that means, don’t you?”

He looked wary at first, then his eyes gleamed as he realized what she was doing. “Means I’ll have to be punished, no doubt.”

“Absolutely.”

She sauntered towards him, plucking the feather duster out of his hand. The handle was smooth wood, not too thick and not too thin. _Just right,_ she thought with a grin as she pushed Spike towards the bed.

...

Spike gazed at the woman curled up beside him, basking in her presence and afterglow. That had been bloody fantastic. Always was with his Slayer, but some times were even better than usual. She’d got a lot more comfortable with it all during the two years since her lot had shown up in L.A. to help with Angel’s apocalypse. More comfortable with him.

When she’d come back from heaven, there’d been things he’d been able to coax her into trying, but she’d never really come up with anything on her own. That thing she’d done with the feather duster, though? He shivered at the memory, body tingling and tightening. God, that had been….

She’d started out with a simple spanking, putting him over her knee and pushing back the skirt before slapping her palm against his bare arse. She’d used just the right amount of strength. Not holding back, but not really hurting him, either. At least, not more than he wanted to be hurt. Three perfectly aimed swats, then she’d reached into the nightstand for the bottle of lube.

Spike bit back a moan, his eyes fluttering closed as he replayed it all in his head. He could almost feel it again, her slicked up fingers inside of him, knowing just where and how to stroke, caressing that spot that sent jagged bolts of pleasure shooting through him. And after that….

A sort of pinching pressure as smooth wood burrowed in where warm fingers had once been. A flash of atavistic terror, because even though it was nowhere near enough his heart to cause lasting harm, was still a slayer shoving a bit of wood into him. But the terror only made the pleasure more intense, because he trusted her.

In and out and circling ‘round. Little flicks of her wrist. She’d ice skated along the line between pleasure and pain, weaving from side to side, but never straying so far into the latter that she completely left the former. He could have ridden it out, held himself back to make it last, but that hadn’t been the point. He’d let himself drown in sensation, let her push him over the edge and into an endless moment of pure bliss.

She’d given him a few moments before gently removing the handle of the feather duster. Then she’d shoved him to the floor and had yelled at him for making a mess. Not from his spendings, but the heavy wetness between her legs. It was a “mess” he’d eagerly taken care of.

He could still taste her on his tongue. Almost hear again the gasps and breathy moans of pleasure as he’d worshiped at her core, her body trembling and jerking as he’d brought her to completion….

There had been more after that. A blur of hands and mouths and bodies joined in ecstasy. Then had come petting and cuddles along with murmured endearments to make up for the harsh words of the game.

And what a game it had been. He’d kicked off the heels at some point, but was still wearing the rest of the outfit. Was still Buffy’s naughty French maid.

He felt her stirring and opened his eyes to see her looking at him. He gazed back at her.

“Hey,” she said softly, “see something you like?”

“Always, Slayer-mine. Always.”


End file.
